The Domino Killer (34 page)

Sam was pacing, his phone ringing out, waiting for Charlotte to answer.

He had something. Tremors of excitement rippled through him. The IP addresses had been the key.

The first hit had come quickly, close to the bottom of the first page, where an IP address came back as the south of Manchester, the first one outside of the United States, away from the proxy servers. He’d highlighted it in green and carried on until a second Manchester hit came along, pinpointed on a map by a small icon, the same area as last time. He’d flicked back through the paper sheets excitedly, knowing he was onto something, looking for the green highlighter. When he found it, he’d checked the numbers and grinned.

The same IP address.

He’d almost smacked the table with excitement. From then on, he’d been looking for a specific number, skimming the pages, until he’d found eleven more. The coincidence of the numbers was too great; they had to represent a specific location.

But he’d known he needed more than that. He had to link vodkagirl’s IP address to Mark Proctor. Then he’d remembered something: Helena Proctor had given him her email address, an email account her husband didn’t know she had.

He’d sent her an innocuous message, asking her if she’d located any other evidence of his accounts, and then chewed his nails for five minutes until a reply came in. It had been short:
No, nothing, not yet, but I’ll look tomorrow. Sorry.

That hadn’t mattered. He had what he wanted: something from the Proctor household that would show up his IP address.

A quick internet search had taught him how to find the IP address in an email, hidden in a long list of commands when he viewed the message header.

The same. The IP address had been used to log into the No One Tells website using the name vodkagirl, who’d had some contact with the victim of the murder in the park, Henry Mason, whose bloodied fingerprint was found on the knife that killed Keith Welsby, who was known for becoming too familiar with pupils, and had worked at the same school that Helena Proctor’s murdered sister had attended.

That was it, the umbrella that somehow kept everything close. Or was it a circle, everything looping back round to the start? Whatever it was, he’d made the connection to Mark Proctor.

But what about a motive? The man he’d met who’d exchanged messages with vodkagirl had said it seemed like a big tease in order to obtain some kind of confession.

The vodkagirl identity was just about getting men to confess their darkest secrets. If you cast the net widely enough, there’d be men out there with secrets they didn’t want revealing. Would that be enough for them to kill if they thought there was a risk that their secrets might come out?

But why would Proctor want Keith Welsby dead? The case was all about Proctor creating grief so that he could revel in it. Why would it matter who his wife’s sister had been sleeping with?

Perhaps Welsby had been looking into Adrianne’s murder, keeping up the hunt long after the police investigation had gone quiet. Had he tracked down the killer, realised that it was Mark Proctor and paid with his life in order to keep him quiet? The No One Tells site was used like an auditioning process. Dangle the thought that vodkagirl was really an underage girl wanting an adventure and you attract people with all the secrets. Once you’ve got the secrets, you’ve got the power: kill Welsby or your secrets will come out.

But that would take a long time, and if Welsby knew Proctor had murdered Adrianne, time was not on Proctor’s side.

Sam wondered if it was something more basic than that, something Proctor had not factored in: had he grown to love his wife and blamed Welsby for allowing him to kill Adrianne? That’s how psychopaths are: they blame other people.

But what dirty secret did Proctor have on Henry Mason that made him kill Welsby?

And then Sam remembered the flowers. It was more like a date than a final handshake on the job being done. Had vodkagirl offered more reward than just a lid on his secrets? Henry Mason was waiting at the park for a liaison, flowers in his hand. He was expecting to meet an underage girl for sex. What had vodkagirl said? Kill my abuser and you can have me? Take my virginity? Had that been enough for Mason?

What he’d met instead was a hammer wielded by Mark Proctor. Vodkagirl had served her purpose. Proctor had used the fake profile to get Mason to kill Welsby, and then he’d killed Mason to destroy the trail. By posing as an underage girl, he’d guaranteed that Henry Mason wouldn’t mention her or the meeting and covered his tracks properly, except Proctor didn’t cover them well enough. He didn’t always go through the proxy server.

Sam had felt like punching the air. He’d got Proctor.

But why kill Henry Mason at all? The link between Proctor and Keith Welsby was clear enough, but there was no clear link between Proctor and Mason? Henry Mason was never going to talk, and Proctor exposed himself by killing Mason. There had to be something else.

And what about the murder the night before, the body Joe had found in Worsley? Proctor had done everything he needed to do in order to avenge the murder of his wife’s sister. Why one extra?

Then he’d realised why: deflection. As Brabham said, how could Proctor be the killer when he was supposed to be a victim? The simplicity was clear.

But if Proctor had acted to somehow get vengeance on the person his wife blamed for her sister’s murder – the teacher who was too much of a coward to make sure his schoolgirl lover got home safely – why now, after all these years?

Sam’s thoughts had returned to Henry Mason. Was there something more to this? Then he’d remembered something. Helena Proctor felt responsible for her sister’s death because she was the substitute parent, bringing up her sister after their parents died in a car crash. She blamed it on a faulty car. Henry Mason sold cars.

He’d called Charlotte. He’d asked her to look into the crash and whether there was any link with Henry Mason. He’d been waiting for her to call back but his impatience had got the better of him.

Charlotte answered.

‘Sorry, Brabham was here,’ she said, excitement in her voice.

‘Tell me.’

‘I didn’t speak to Mason’s widow. I looked at Helena Proctor. Or Helena Morley, as she was then.’

‘Go on.’

Charlotte paused. Sam knew he’d put her in an awkward position; she couldn’t be seen to be helping him.

‘You can take all the credit,’ he said. ‘It’s important.’

‘You were right,’ she said eventually.

He grinned. ‘Tell me.’

‘I’ve got the report in front of me,’ Charlotte said. ‘A husband and wife were killed in a car crash. The daughter, Helena Morley, reckoned the car had been glammed up to get through a sale, because there were problems. The brakes were sticking and the accelerator. They were killed on the motorway, crashed into a bridge support when the husband swerved to avoid a queue of traffic. No proof that the car was faulty; it looked like he’d noticed the queue too late. Sold to them by Henry Mason. Helena gave Mason grief for a few years, writing letters and hanging around outside the showroom. We warned her off but she carried on. He took out an injunction against her in the end because we didn’t act quickly enough. That stopped it.’

‘Oh, you little beauty,’ Sam said, almost shouting. ‘They’re all linked.’ He laughed. ‘Proctor’s cleaning up for his wife. I don’t believe it.’

‘But why would he do that? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Guilt,’ he said. ‘Perhaps after all this time, somewhere in his twisted soul he’s discovered a heart. He’s grown to love her, in his own way. Maybe he always did, so he deflects his guilt.’

‘I’m not following.’

‘Psychopaths blame others, never themselves, often portraying themselves as the victims. It’s a classic sign. Has he convinced himself that he’s not really to blame, that it was all the teacher’s fault for letting Adrianne go home alone, that it was Welsby’s fault for letting Proctor get his way? And the car? If Henry Mason hadn’t sold Helena’s parents that dodgy car, they’d still be alive and might have kept the reins a little tighter on Adrianne. He’s killing the people he blames for letting him kill Adrianne.’

‘I’ve got to speak to Brabham,’ Charlotte said.

‘Do that. Say you found it, I don’t mind.’

Sam clicked off. He put his phone against his chest. They were nearly there.

His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ring of his phone. It was Joe.

‘Joe?’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

‘Proctor’s kidnapped his own niece,’ Joe said, breathless. ‘Carrie. Fourteen years old. He’s been stalking her and now he’s taken her.’

‘I’m on it,’ Sam said.

‘There’s something else, too.’

‘What, for Christ’s sake?’

‘Proctor attacked Gina, tried to kill her. He’s getting revenge. Keep Ruby safe.’

‘Shit!’

Joe clicked off.

Sam grabbed his coat and ran for the door. He remembered how Gina had been over Ellie’s death. He owed her.

Proctor looked around and the memories flooded back. He wasn’t prone to sentimentality, but it was hard not to think of all the years that had passed. The view wasn’t the same, much of what he’d known had been bulldozed away, but there were enough remnants to allow his mind to fill in the gaps. He was in his favourite place, and he knew it might be his last time there.

It was the solitude he remembered. All of his childhood spent in the company of someone else, his older brother Dan, a bullying ever-present. Night after night, or so it seemed, he’d be picked at, prodded and teased. So he’d craved the quiet spaces, loved walking to find them, those quiet places on the towpaths or in old abandoned buildings. A few hours alone, watching people, dreaming of letting them know he was there. Well, they knew now.

And he knew something else, too: if he was saying goodbye, he had to make sure people remembered him. For so long, it had been about his effect, the ripples he sent out, the quiet man enjoying what he did, how he relished that no one knew, even when he was among them. Not any more. If this was his curtain call, it was time to be noticed. This was about the splash.

One more look around. There was no one on the street and no one looking out of a window.

He opened the boot of the car. Carrie was curled up in it. Her cheeks were drenched with tears and her eyes opened wide as Proctor leaned in for her. Despite her desire to get out of the cramped space – he’d heard the thumps in the boot as she’d tried to stretch out to relieve the cramps – she shrank back as he got near her. He grabbed the rope that was in the corner of the boot and bound her wrists together, before yanking her hard. Her upper body hung over the bumper helplessly, so he pulled harder until she tumbled out of the car. She grunted when she landed on the concrete.

‘Stay quiet,’ he said, jabbing her in the ribs with his foot. He reached into the boot again and found a rag. It was dirt-covered and smelled of oil, but it would do.

Carrie tried to shuffle under the car. He grabbed her ankle and made her screech in pain as her T-shirt rode up and her flesh scraped across the loose concrete.

Proctor knelt down. Carrie cowered against the car bumper. He wrapped the rag around her head to make a gag, pulling it hard. He lifted her chin with his finger and moved a strand of hair that was stuck to her forehead. Her skin was damp with perspiration and he felt his heart rate increase. The feel of her skin was like static under his fingers.

‘Be a good girl,’ he said. ‘You’re going to come with me and you’re going to do exactly as I say.’ His fingers strayed to her neck and traced her jawline, felt the slight bump of a mole under her chin. ‘I’ve killed people, Carrie, you have to know that. Girls your age too.’ He held up his hand to quell the wail that was building. ‘If you want me to let you live, you’ve got to do as I say. Do you understand?’

There was a long period of silence before she nodded.

‘Good. We’re going to walk in there together.’ And he gestured towards the building behind her. ‘I’ve still got the knife so don’t get brave. You don’t want your mother to find you like that, bleeding out on the pavement. If she loves you, she’ll do what I say, and you’ll be home soon.’

Carrie nodded again.

Proctor knelt down and grabbed her under her arms, pulling her to her feet. He pushed her forwards and she stumbled to her knees, wincing in pain. When he lifted her again, a thin stream of blood ran from her leg where small stones stuck to her skin.

He moved a piece of metal security fencing and took her inside.

He had to be careful as he walked her forward. The floor was littered with loose bricks and stones, jagged pieces of metal scattered around, the slow crumble of a building no one used anymore. There was talk of redevelopment, but the building work had ground to a halt in recent years.

There were stairs in the corner of the room. Thin light came in from the street lights, but it was murky, the windows thick with dirt. The world outside seemed distant. His footsteps were loud scrapes that echoed through the building. The floors were mostly intact but as he looked up he could see to the top floor, gaps allowing a clear view.

Proctor led Carrie to a tall metal pillar and sat her down. He knelt down next to her. Small insects scurried away as a cobweb got tangled in her hair.

‘You’re going to stay here for a few minutes and then we’re on the move again.’ There was plenty of slack on the rope so he tied it around the pillar, pulling it tight.

Carrie’s whimpers turned into sobs but he knew she couldn’t move.

He took out Carrie’s phone. The screen was cracked from where it had fallen to the floor but it still worked. ‘Shall we make a phone call first? Your mother needs to know where you are.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Then later, we’re going to have some fun.’

He dialled Melissa’s number. As he waited for it to connect, he thought about what he could do. He was making it up as he went along, no real plan in place, but he had to make it have impact. This is how he would be remembered.